Champion VC Conformation/Obedience CGC Mehagian’s “OK Corral Me”
AKA “Stetson Lin,” Beloved Vizsla puppy and guardian of the Lin family
Feb 13 2013 – Nov 1, 2021
And just like that, he was gone.
Dave and I sat at the dinner table, eating our dinner in silence. It was the first real food I had eaten that day. The house was quiet.
The double-breathing and rattly-snore we normally heard coming from the laundry room was cut in half.
The kids were all asleep after an eventful evening.
We chewed our food thoughtfully and every once in awhile, one of us would interject a story here and there.
One of us would go over the events of the evening from our own perspective, in an attempt to both process and grieve.
What in the world had happened between the X-rays and the kitchen table?
I had fully expected to look at the X-rays, laugh with the docs at some weird thing Stetson had snorted up his nose, watch them pull it out with tweezers and we’d all be on our way.
I had even given the kids “the talk” in the car.
“Now, you guys listen to me. Mommy needs to have a serious talk with the doctors and look at some X-rays of Stetson’s nose. I need all of you guys to get along and be quiet while we talk, ok?”
A chorus of “Sure, mom… yep,” and “OK’s” emitted from the backseat.
As I peered at the X-rays, one started irritating the other and one squealed in anguish. I tried to navigate the meltdowns and listen to what the Doctors were saying.
I heard “Adeno-sarcoma” and “heavy blood loss” and “hematocrit at 20.” The mere fact that I can recall this info is a testament to how intently I was trying to listen in the midst of the meltdowns.
“Listen, Sara,” said Dr. Samuelson, my long-time vet who I’d also consider a friend.
“He’s losing a lot of blood, and fast.” I could hardly comprehend this since I had just brought him to the office this morning for a nosebleed that wouldn’t seem to heal.
“You can’t ever fully predict these things, but at the rate he’s losing blood, he’ll bleed out within the week.”
I stood there in shock as the kid-tornado swirled around me.
My precious puppy. My fur-child who I trained up alongside my first flesh-child.
Who was a steady rock. Who went everywhere with us.
I snapped back in to reality. I had to do something about the kids.
“Can I leave Stets here a few hours while I take the kids to my parents and figure out the next steps?”
“Of course,” my kind vet answered back. “We’re here for you. Take what time you need and let us know how you want to proceed.”
Dave called as I had just finished strapping the kids in their seats. I dissolved into tears the second I saw his face on the video.
I managed to choke out that he needed to talk to the vet directly to get the most accurate picture of Stetson’s condition from a medical perspective. At that point, I didn’t trust myself to relay the facts in an orderly fashion.
I got in the car and called my mom. “Mom, you’re a few miles away from the vet’s office. Can I park with the kids for a little bit while I talk to Dave and process this information.” She was, of course, willing to open her house to the grandkids on short notice (because that’s what moms do).
An hour later, we met each other at the vet’s office and laid on the floor in a little room with our precious boy. We stroked his fur and told him what a good boy he was. We wiped his bloody nose. We talked about the facts. We talked about our feelings. We tried to talk about what was best for Stetson… and push away the things we just wanted for us. We cried.
We made some decisions. Some permanent decisions that we knew would leave us without our beautiful rusty-furred companion. Decisions that would allow him to stop bleeding while we laid by his side and he left this world for something far more beautiful and less burdensome.
It was all so sudden and my eyes were raw from crying.
We put on a brave face as we picked up the kids and headed toward home. I had explained to them earlier what was likely going to happen. They’ll process it more in the coming days, but it doesn’t mean a whole lot to them when they’re that young. It’s too abstract of a concept.
When we got home, I cupped Timmy’s chin ever so gently in my hands. “Timmy… I have sad news. Stetson, your buddy for life isn’t coming home. I’m so sorry. I know you’ll miss him. But we’re still here for you and when you get sad, I’m here to give you hugs.”
Timmy just looked at me with the same quizzical expression he has 24/7. The lights are on but nobody’s home.
What I really meant was, “Timmy, I’m going to miss him so much. And when I get sad, I’m glad you’re here to give me hugs.”
Even in a house of four kids, there will be a certain quiet that I’m uncomfortable with. A bark here and there. A rustle of the tags. A wagging of the tail.
As we sat there and picked at the dinner Dave made us I looked at him with watery eyes.
“This is our third go-round at losing a pet. We know it’s coming. We know they’re going to die… we KNOW it will hurt this bad. Why do we keep doing it?”
Dave looked at me thoughtfully.
“When I was a boy, my family didn’t have dogs. And I wanted a dog so bad,” said Dave.
“I know, me too,” I agreed. “I’m so glad you wanted a dog because they’re so amazing and I’m glad we got to raise them together.”
Because love is always worth it.
